Uncle Severus on the Wall
by Swallow B
Summary: When Scorpius Malfoy starts at Hogwarts, Lucius asks Snape's portrait to prepare him. But Scorpius has questions of his own.


Uncle Severus on the Wall

Characters and main events leading to this story belong to JK Rowling.

This was written in response to Silverbirch's challenge: what is it like to be a magical portrait? I think I have answered all the questions, though, like Snape, I have gone off track a lot.

ooo

I was never one to ponder whether there is life after death. When your life is rotten, you don't ask such inanities. You wait till it's over.

What happens when you die? I couldn't tell you.

What I can tell you is what happens when Dumbledore and the Dark Lord both decide you are the best headmaster for Hogwarts. You are stuck there forever.

Except when I visit Lucius.

They put me in the drawing room where the Dark Lord used to hold his meetings, perhaps in a feeble attempt to exorcise the spirit of death that has attached itself to the place. They got rid of the furniture. All was burnt, the long table on which... don't make me recall the details.

New furniture has been bought, just as expensive, just as Malfoy. Floor, ceiling and walls have been scrubbed and hidden behind new carpet and tapestry. Incense has been burnt. But nothing can rid the air of the smell of death. For this, the whole manor would need to be burnt down.

I doubt it will.

Today, Lucius Malfoy is sitting in his new armchair which is deep, fluffy and plush enough to please even Horace. Opposite him, in a somewhat smaller armchair sits Draco, his fingers nervously twiddling a thick yellow envelope. Narcissa and Astoria, seated on chairs, glow with suppressed excitement. In the middle, perched on a smaller chair, his feet barely touching the floor, is the boy. Scorpius.

"Ah, Severus," says Lucius in a wheeze reminiscent of Filch. He is sixty-two now, but he looks over a hundred. "My grandson has just received his Hogwarts letter."

The proud mother and grandmother allow themselves smiles. Draco looks at me as he always does, in a silent call for approval.

They are expecting me to congratulate the young man, so I do.

"Well done, Scorpius."

His complexion turns pale pink.

"I would like you to have a little talk with him, Severus, to prepare him for Hogwarts,' says Lucius. That is his way. Lucius would always "like me to" do things. And since I am a portrait, I am always having "little talks". Now that I am dead, they expect me to be wise.

Narcissa helps Lucius up. Draco pats his son on the shoulder. They all walk out, leaving the child perched on his chair.

"Hello, Uncle Severus," he says.

Scorpius looks like his father and grandfather, yet different, as if a same actor had lent his traits to these different characters. Lucius was haughty, Draco arrogant. Scorpius is quiet. He looks a little sickly.

"Do you play outside?" I ask him . "Do you play Quidditch?"

"A bit," he says, looking embarrassed.

"Not as well as Father," I guess.

He shakes his head.

"I was not good at Quidditch either," I tell him.

He stays silent.

I suppose I should start the lesson. I mean the "little talk".

"What do you know about Hogwarts?"

"It's a school. Father went there, and Grandfather, and Mother, and Grandmother, everybody. Father told me you were Head of Slytherin and headmaster," he adds in awe.

"I was. What do you know about Slytherin?"

"It's the best house. Our family has always been in Slytherin."

"It's a good house," I agree. "But the others are good too."

Don't tell Minerva I said that. But one had better be careful with these things. Though the boy doesn't look like a Gryffindor, I wouldn't be exaggeratedly surprised if Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw claimed him.

"Father and Grandfather say it's the best. They say Hufflepuffs are idiots and Gryffindors hate Slytherins."

"The Sorting Hat will decide what is best for you."

He looks worried.

"How does it decide?"

"It ses inside your head."

"Inside my head?"

"It sees what you think, what you feel, what your aptitudes are."

"How does it decide if I belong in Slytherin?"

"Slytherins are cunning and ambitious."

"What does that mean?"

Draco, at his age, would never have admitted ignorance.

"It means they are ready to do anything to succeed."

"To succeed in their studies?"

Hufflepuff naivety? Lucius and Draco might be needing a "little talk" soon.

"In their studies and in anything they want."

"They want?" he repeats, in a replay of his aunt Daphne's question, before she repeatedly brought disgrace on her family.

"Yes, whatever they want."

Like Daphne at the time, Scorpius has never wanted anything. I can see it in those eyes that have never smiled.

Even I was a happier child.

"You have to want something to be in Slytherin."

"Oh, I do," he says. "I want to be in Slytherin."

God - if there is a God, I still don't know - protect pureblood children.

"It's a start. When - if you get into Slytherin, you will think of what you want next."

He nods. Hufflepuffs don't usually nod when they don't understand. Only Slytherins do that.

"Slytherins are ambitious and cunning," I continue, "and they know how to live with their Dark side."

"What's a Dark side?" he asks.

"The part of you that is selfish, unfair and dishonest. The part that might be cruel, that might take pleasure in hurting others."

I doubt the child understands the word 'sadistic'. He might understand the concept, though.

"Does everyone have a Dark side?" he asks.

Hum, quite a Ravenclaw question. Lucius and Draco might need a shorter talk.

"Everyone's Dark side is different and everyone deals with it differently."

"Slytherins know how to live with it, others don't?"

"That is why Slytherin is an unpopular house."

"No, it isn't," he says automatically. Then he catches himself, gasps and covers his mouth with both hands.

"Don't contradict me. Your grandfather wants me to tell you what he and your father have never had the courage to tell you."

"Yes, sir. Er, no sir."

"I thought I was Uncle Severus."

"Yes, sir. I mean Uncle. That's what Father calls you."

"That's what he called me when he was a child."

"When you were alive?"

"Yes. Now listen carefully. Slytherin has always been unpopular because of its capability of living with its Dark side. Things became worse during the war. Have you heard of the war?"

He hesitates. He has heard of the war, but he knows he wasn't supposed to hear. And he doesn't understand what he has heard.

"There was a war before you were born. Do you know what a war is?"

"When people kill each other."

"This war was caused by a Dark wizard. A cruel wizard who killed and tortured many people."

He doesn't ask what 'tortured' means.

"He killed me."

"How did it feel?"

"Painful. His giant snake bit me."

"And then?"

"Then I was in pain. I had no strength to stand and I couldn't breathe."

"And then?" he asks, hardly breathing himself.

"Then nothing."

"Then you were a portrait?"

"Then I was a portrait."

Now comes the big question, the one only Theodore Nott has ever asked me.

"What's it like to be a portrait?"

We are completely off topic.

"It's like looking at life through a screen and not being part of it. My life is over. I remember my death. All I can do now is speak to those who will listen to me."

"Like Father and Grandfather?"

"Yes."

"You were Grandfather's friend."

"I still am."

"It's not like being a ghost. You can't move around."

"Only from one portrait to another. I have two other portraits."

"Yes," he says. "Sometimes you aren't here."

"Then I am at Hogwarts, visiting the Slytherin common room or the Headmistress' office."

"I'll see you there then."

"Perhaps you will."

"Don't you want to visit other places sometimes?"

Again he puts both hands on his mouth, as if he had asked a highly inappropriate question.

"No. Where would I go? To watch a Quidditch match or visit my own grave? I don't think so."

"Father says you were Potions master. You might want to visit the lab."

"I doubt Professor Zabini would want me there. He still owes me an essay, you see."

A shy smile creeps to to Scorpius' mouth, but doesn't reach his eyes.

"Will you always be a portrait? Forever? Even after I'm dead?"

"If no one destroys my portraits."

"If one was destroyed, you'd live... I mean you'd be in the others?"

"Yes."

"Would it hurt you if your portrait was destroyed?"

"It depends how it would be destroyed. Probably."

"But you could get away before you were hurt."

"Spoken as a Slytherin."

The smile reaches up his cheeks, this time.

"I don't want your portrait to be destroyed."

"At least you know what you don't want."

"Father and Grandfather don't want it to be destroyed either."

."No. They enjoy chatting with me."

"Don't you miss being alive?" he asks shyly, though this time he does not bring his hands to his mouth.

"No."

He says nothing. Perhaps it's time to go back to what I am supposed to be teaching, I mean talking about.

"I was telling you Slytherin was unpopular."

He nods.

"The Dark wizard who caused the war was, unfortunately, a Slytherin. Many Slytherins followed him. Among whom myself."

"But he killed you."

"He was cruel to his followers."

He frowns.

"Your father and grandfather followed him too. When we realised our error, it was too late. One couldn't leave. Lord Voldemort killed those who wanted to leave."

"Voldemort?"

"That was the name he gave himself."

"What happened to him?"

"He was killed by a man called Harry Potter. His son will be at Hogwarts in your year. Minerva tells me his name is Albus Severus."

"Who's Minerva?"

"The headmistress. Don't call her that. Call her Professor McGonagall."

"Professor McGonagall. Father says she's a bloodtraitor and she hates Slytherin."

"She is just an old lady."

"She doesn't hate Slytherin?"

"No."

I watch him grappling with the contradiction. Could Father be wrong?

"I know her well, Scorpius. I have known her longer than your father has been alive. She doesn't hate Slytherin. She just likes to think Gryffindor is better because she was in Gryffindor."

"Didn't you tell Father that?"

"I did. But your father likes to think everybody hates him."

"Why?"

"Perhaps it's easier."

"Easier?"

"He doesn't have to love them."

"He wouldn't love the Headmistress!"

"He could respect her. Unfortunately, they were on opposite sides during the war. You'll find the war is still very present in people's minds, Scorpius. Even in the minds of those who weren't born at the time, because their parents talk about it all the time."

"Sometimes my grandparents talk about it. Then they say, 'hush, not in front of the child'".

"That is wise. But there are things you have to know. For example, that many people will not like you at school."

He gazes at his feet with a resigned expression. I answer the question he didn't ask.

"Because you are a Malfoy and the Malfoys followed Voldemort."

"I wasn't even born," he mutters.

"Nor were any of the students now at Hogwarts. But some poisonous plants have strong roots."

"Uh?"

I breathe deply, as I feel my allergy to stupidity kicking in.

"Life isn't fair. When I was Head of Slytherin, I taught my students not to expect fairness. As a Malfoy, you will not get it."

He looks at his feet again.

"On the other hand, the boy called Potter will be adored, just because his father killed Voldemort before he was born. You must be ready for this. That's what your grandfather wanted me to tell you."

He says nothing and continues to stare at his feet.

"It will be harder for you because you are a Malfoy. But you can change things."

"How?"

"I have been speaking with several of my students and ex-students about changing Slytherin's image. Things are changing slowly. There are now two Slytherin teachers at Hogwarts. The matron and the librarian are Slytherins. These people have gained respect from their colleagues. What you need to do is change the Malfoy image."

"I can't do that."

"Have you heard of Professor Dumbledore?"

"No."

"Professor Dumbledore was headmaster of Hogwarts... before I was. Most people nowadays consider him as a hero and a saint. But it was not always so. When young Albus Dumbledore arrived at Hogwarts, he had a bad name because his father had been arrrested for killing three young Muggles."

"He had a bad name because of that?"

"Even at the time, the policy at Hogwarts was friendly to Muggles."

"Yes. Grandfather talked about sending me to Durmstrang. He said they don't like Muggles there. But Mother and Grandmother didn't want me to go there."

"What about your father?"

"He said nothing."

"You are better off at Hogwarts. You are living in British wizarding society. You must make your place here."

"Make my place?"

I sigh deeply again.

"Make yourself another place than the one society wants to give you."

"Society?"

I could be speaking Chinese.

"The school. When your father was at Hogwarts, he could not spend five minutes without mentioning his father. I trust you will act differently."

"Why would I talk about Father?"

"Exactly. You need to be Scorpius. One should not be defined by one's father."

Then I realise what I have just said.

"Portraits cough?" remarks Scorpius.

"Oh yes," I hear myself say, sounding like Dumbledore.

"Do they get sick?"

"Sometimes. But they always recover."

I pause to ask myself if everything has been said. Not entirely, but how much can one tell an eleven year old?

"Do you eat and drink?" he is asking. "Could someone poison you?"

"We portraits do not need to eat and drink. We can, if so inclined, but we can only ingest pictures of food. For a picture of poison to be poisonous, real poison would need to be mixed to the paint. Now if Professor McGonagall poisoned me..."

"Would she?"

"I doubt it. It's just an example. If she poisoned me, my portrait would be become still and speak no more."

I'd better watch my step with Minerva. She might like that.

"Could you be unpoisoned?"

"No such word exists in the dictionary, young man."

"I mean, could you be made right again?"

"An expert in wizard painting would have to be called. But it isn't impossible."

"Who painted you, I mean your portrait?"

"A wizard in Hungary who had never heard of me. A magical portrait must be painted by someone who has no preconceptions about it. If Dean Thomas were to paint me, for example..."

"Who's Dean Thomas?"

"A Gryffindor painter. Then my portrait would be very much out of character. It would not be myself speaking to you here, but his interpretation of me... Is there something you would like to know about Hogwarts?" I ask, in a desperate attempt to get back to the subject.

He thinks for a moment.

"No. So long as I'm not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff."

"You won't be in Gryffindor."

"Good... What about Huflepuff?"

"You have a cousin in Hufflepuff."

"I can't have. I don't have any cousins."

I sigh again. Am I supposed to explain away all the shadows Lucius has cast?

"Am I making you tired? I know portraits sleep sometimes."

"You are not making me tired, child. You father and grandfather are making me tired."

"Oh. Should I go then?"

"No more questions about Hogwarts?"

(Or about portraits?)

"I don't think so."

"Good luck."

"Thank you. I'll be in Slytherin. Goodbye, Uncle Severus."

His small feet trail away on the carpet. At his age, Draco skipped.

ooo

To reviewers: I am going away in a few days, so you might have to wait a couple of weeks to get a reply. But you will, eventually.


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